


The Death of Prescriptions

by alatariel_gildaen



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-12
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-04-04 01:57:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,266
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4121889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alatariel_gildaen/pseuds/alatariel_gildaen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quick little glimpse into the Stranges' home life. The inspiration for this piece was one of the many wonderful footnotes in the book, which described exactly how much Jonathan Strange despised one of the books he was forced to read. That and the fact that I just adore Jonathan and Arabella's relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Death of Prescriptions

The wind picks up, rattling the window panes of all the houses in Soho Square. The high, enclosed walls in the square seem to have trapped the wind in a never-ending circle, and within moments it returns, shaking the glass harder than ever, and a particularly entrepreneurial gust manages to weave its way indoors, causing the candles to gutter in the sudden breeze.

Jonathan looks up briefly from the book he is reading. Or rather, from the book he has been attempting to read, with varying degrees of lack of success, for the past half an hour. When the breeze fails to make a second appearance and the candle flames all return to attention, he sighs and tries to focus his eyes once more upon Sutton-Grove’s _Prescriptions and Descriptions_.

He re-reads an especially dull sentence several times, describing the notion that there was once a use of endives in magic that was now lost but far from finding the revelation interesting, all he can think of was a meal he had while visiting Bath some years back, before he was married. He recalls a delightful side dish of endives braised in butter with a little sugar and allows a smirk to cross his face. He had gotten particularly drunk that night, and had argued with some rather impertinent fellow who had eaten almost all of the endives, thoughtlessly leaving none for any other guests. The other gentleman had already irked him a number of times, but this act of selfish thoughtlessness had been the catalyst for Jonathan to finally voice his dislike. The disagreement had carried on through the evening and rolled out into the street after the party had ended, where the other gentleman had fallen down in a rather drunken stupor whilst trying to enter his carriage. Simultaneously to this, a man with a hay cart had clearly had a quarrel with his donkey (although Jonathan highly doubted that their argument had been over the bad manners of a man stealing endives away from a civilised party) and the donkey, far from his master’s control, had rushed to the side of the endive thief and eaten the man’s hat. Naturally, Jonathan had done nothing to aid the man’s predicament, and had merely watched in derisive amusement.

He remembers the man’s severe indignation, and for a moment his smirk turns to a snort, when the wind once again makes an appearance, causing the candlelight to flicker deeper this time. 

It is almost as if the wind is Norrell, chastising him for not concentrating on this dreadful book. He clears his throat and allows a slight frown to crease his brow as he once again tries to read the paragraph detailing the use of endives. However, he finds that the paragraph is not any easier to digest on the twentieth reread and his eyes cross the room to where Arabella is sat upon the chaise-longue, concentrating on a charcoal sketch that is mounted upon an easel in front of her. He forgets that he is supposed to be reading. He disregards the fact that Mr Norrell will be intensely displeased if he has not finished his reading by their next meeting. Instead he contents himself with quietly observing his wife for a few minutes. 

She looks up briefly and spies him watching her, and feeling her questioning gaze penetrate him far more keenly than his tutor's ever would, he immediately returns his attention to the tedious pages of _Prescriptions and Descriptions._ It bores him to his absolute core. He yawns widely, and feels the book deserves a similar fate to the endive thief’s hat, and momentarily wonders where he might procure a donkey that would be up to the task.

After two more failed attempts at the paragraph he looks up once more. “What are you drawing, my love?” he asks Arabella.

“You, Jonathan,” she replies without stopping her work.

“And are you making me look terribly dashing and handsome?”

“Impossible,” she replies, a faint smile playing about her lips. “I have neither the skill nor patience to achieve such a feat.”

“I see,” he answers, and his own smile mirrors that of his wife. “So you are instead giving me a worldly, scholarly air?”

“When you have been staring blankly at the same page for the best part of an hour, Jonathan?” she laughs. “No, I think not.”

“Well, I shall have to show you how scholarly I am,” says Jonathan, unruffled by his wife’s slights against his looks and demeanour. “I am going to finish this dratted book, far before you finish your drawing.”

“If it makes you happy, Mr Strange, so be it,” she says, and the laugh that accompanies her words sends a frisson of joy through his heart.

Before he can attempt to read, the wind blows once more, a ghostly, low whistling that rushes in from outside, and the candles in the room gutter to the extent that they are in danger of blowing out. He quickly seizes upon the opportune excuse to briefly cease his studies.

“Is there a window open somewhere?” he calls out.

“No, my love,” Arabella replies. She pauses for a moment before adding, “More evidence of how shockingly built these London houses are, I suppose.”

“Quite,” he agrees, and he cannot help but notice and be entirely distracted by the ironic tone in her voice. Her independent and rather quarrelsome nature was, after all, one of the things he found most alluring when they were first courting. It is one of the things he loves most about her to this day. “Now, if you don’t mind, your endless chatter is proving to be far too much of a distraction. I must get this finished.”

“To impress Mr Norrell with your wisdom, or to beat me in this race?”

“Either. Both.”

She smiles tightly to herself, and when she speaks she can barely conceal her own amused triumph. “But I am afraid, my love, that you have already failed in your second task.” She turns the easel around to show him the completed sketch. She may not have had any classic education as an artist, but nevertheless, Jonathan always finds something quite charming and delightful within her work. And she has managed to capture his boredom and severe distaste for _Prescriptions and Descriptions_ perfectly. 

He studies the sketch for a moment or two longer. She is entirely correct in her earlier assertion that she had not made him handsome, or dashing, or scholarly, or in any way worldly. His countenance is dark, a sneer plays about his lips, and he looks for all the world as if he is about to commit the crime of book-murder. 

The wind returns, this time with an accompanying rumble of thunder, and once again the candles blow out almost entirely. It is a fitting tribute to the mood captured in Arabella's sketch.

“Then I concede defeat,” he says at last, as he reaches his hand out towards her and pulls her into his embrace. “On both counts. Clearly this wind wants me to stop reading, and who am I to argue with such a force of nature? Let us to bed, my love, and in the morning, you can help me find a donkey.”

“A donkey?” Arabella laughs, a look of mingled amusement and concern crossing her features.

“A donkey,” he confirms, leading her from the room, with one final glance towards the charcoal sketch. “It is the only appropriate end I can think of for something which causes my wife to capture such an ugly expression on my face.”


End file.
